


finger bang bang (my baby shot me down)

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Rough Sex, Trans McCree, hatefucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 16:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8020642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse has a run-in with a ghost.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>commission for mecchis on tumblr</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	finger bang bang (my baby shot me down)

Overwatch is dead.

Jack Morrison, the man of golden statues and fame, is dead; Gabriel Reyes, the founder confined to the shadows, is dead along with him. They’ve both been gone for years, the men of fantastic legend reduced to lost corpses--gone long enough for their names to be wiped from the memories of everything but the history books, brought down in shame along with the organization that saved the world.

Overwatch, Morrison, Reyes; all gone.

But Jesse McCree hangs on.

He works alone, now--gave up his kin on the day that he got tired of seeing them all at war, the day he walked away from the only family he’s ever really known--and sometimes he thinks that’s for the best. After all, with no partner to speak of any bounty he cashes in is all his, and the only hide he has to worry about keeping intact anymore is his own. There’s no one to complain if he snores in his sleep or stays out too late at the bars; no one to order him around, no one to get on his nerves.

It also makes lodging cheaper, he muses, as he walks into the only motel that the little city of Gisela, Arizona, has to offer.

One room, one bed, and all for him--Jesse unlocks the old door and has to wrestle it open, then curls his lip at the room’s state of disarray; he hadn’t expected much for the price, to be honest, and supposes he should be thankful that the place didn’t charge him extra for the peeling wallpaper and convenient flytape.

He sighs. Such is the life of a bounty hunter.

Jesse leans his weight back against the door to convince it to close, then heads immediately for the room’s only window. He goes to close the sunbleached curtains, and pauses as he catches sight of the people down below through the grimy glass: the two children that walk the street alongside their parents, clasped hands swinging, and the young couple that sit on a nearby bench, locked in an embrace like they’re facing the end of the world. In the settling dark of oncoming night, the streetlamps cast everyone in a faint glow, gives the whole scene a real warm, homey feel.

Jesse scowls and yanks the curtains closed.

He slinks back to his bed and all but falls upon it, closing his eyes so he won’t have to stare at the stained ceiling--as bad as the mattress is, lumpy and stiff in places it really shouldn’t be, it beats sleeping on the cold ground any day and his back is thankful for what meager cushion it does provide. Jesse keeps his eyes closed as he kicks his boots off, letting his toes wiggle in the new-found freedom of the air before he brings his legs up enough to pull the socks off too, throwing them to some corner of the room to find later.

Next comes the clothes--Peacekeeper is pulled reverently from her holster and laid on the nearby nightstand with an affectionate pat, and then Jesse’s belts are tossed to the floor, followed by dusty chaps and pants and body armor, the battered cloak and sweat-stained shirt and everything else, until he can stretch out on the bed in nothing but his hat and his underwear and moan softly at the liberation.

Another perk of working alone--he doesn’t have to share jack shit.

Jesse looks down at himself with a pensive hum, puts a hand on the squishy swell of his lower belly, and gives the pudge a thoughtful rub. He considers starting himself on a new workout regimen, to trim the chub off his belly and hips--but then he also considers just who the fuck he’s trying to impress, and decides he’s just fine the way he is.

The blankets aren’t exactly comfortable--they feel scratchy and stiff along his skin, like they’ve either been washed too much or not enough--but they cover him nonetheless, keep him warm as he gets settled down into the bed. He doesn’t plan on immediately falling asleep, but as soon as he’s tucked up and comfortable it feels like all the strain his body has been under lately surges over him at once, and he’s out cold before he has time to complain about the lumpy pillow.

__

It’s the chill that wakes him, first.

Bleary brown eyes open to a room bathed in darkness and _cold_ , and Jesse frowns as he curls up tighter, trying to salvage any of the warmth that so suddenly has vanished. He squeezes his eyes shut again with a quiet grumble, longing to return to the deep sleep he’d been in before; desperate to get some good rest before dawn.

And that’s when he hears the creak of the floorboards near the window.

In a heartbeat he’s rolled into a defensive stance on the floor, Peacekeeper clasped in his hand and drawn, aimed at the still-solidifying cloud of black that hovers by the window. McCree cocks the revolver as he watches the mass of mist congeal into the body of the terrorist he knows as Reaper, and wishes, for just a moment, that he was in more than his boxers--but as Reaper comes into full, solid existence before him and takes a step forward with heavy iron-toed boots, McCree realizes that his attire might not be the biggest concern he has right now.

He licks his lips and waits for the other man to make the first move; his gut is screaming at him to shoot, to kill, but something else--something lingering from Blackwatch, from days long gone, from a man named Reyes--makes him hold.

“...you’ve let yourself go, McCree,” Reaper comments lowly, sounding almost disappointed; Jesse’s heart skips a beat, and he grips his revolver tighter. “This time last year, you would’ve emptied a round in me already.”

“Yeah, well.” McCree straightens up off his knees, getting to his feet to glare down the ghost--because that’s all Reaper is, he tells himself, just a _ghost_ of a man gone by. Not something to be afraid of, anymore. “I’m smarter now. We both know a round ain’t gonna touch you, if you don’t want it to.”

Reaper laughs--tries to, anyway, but the ragged sound that leaves him is ghastly and haunting and nowhere near what McCree would call amused. Jesse slowly lowers Peacekeeper, but doesn’t relax his grip, keeping his muscles tense and ready for a draw; he has a sinking feeling in his gut that he knows why Reaper is here, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy.

Not this time.

“Clever boy,” Reaper murmurs, walking closer; Jesse takes a step back and halts as the back of his knees hit the bed, swallows down his unease to raise his chin and glare at the eyeholes in Reaper’s mask. He imagines he can’t see red, dimly glowing in the darkness there. “Why weren’t you that smart in Blackwatch, McCree?”

Jesse scowls. “I was distracted.” And it’s true--had Reyes not been his Commander and more, had Jesse established a firm, healthy line between superior and subordinate, things might not have turned out the way they did. McCree might not have found himself face-down in his Commander’s bed some nights, thighs open and begging for it, and Reyes might’ve had to have found another place to take out his frustrations.

But maybe not.

“That’s a shitty excuse and we both know it,” Reaper says mildly, stopping once he’s within arm’s reach of Jesse; he doesn’t move, not yet, and Jesse hates the tension in his body as he waits for the touch he knows is coming. 

They’ve done this too many times for him to not know Reaper’s next move.

But instead of lunging, Reaper just tilts his head a little, almost contemplative as he asks, “But even if it was true...it wouldn’t matter. If you could do it over, McCree, would you change anything?”

The question takes McCree by surprise--because _Reaper_ of all people coming to him to contemplate regrets is almost _laughably_ ironic, not to mention entirely out of character. The Reyes that Jesse knew never wasted time on the what-ifs and the could-have-beens, instead focused entirely on changing the present to something he wanted; the Reyes of Blackwatch wouldn’t have bothered to wonder if, ten years down the line, Jesse would regret the things they got up to in the dark and quiet.

But then again, Jesse reminds himself harshly, this _Reaper_ is not his Reyes. Not anymore. 

Reyes is nothing but a name smeared in infamy, a corpse never found with a grave marked by a blank stone. Reyes is dead and gone, and will never again have any memories to cherish or lost opportunities to regret; Reyes is only still living through those who remember him, and to Jesse he will forever be the Commander that he was never worthy of loving, the man who saved his life at the cost of his heart, big brown hands tangled in his hair and hips pounding against his own and lips that were never soft, leaving biting kisses down the column of his throat and stealing the breath from his lungs. 

The memories make his heart ache, but the thought of losing them is even worse.

“...No,” Jesse whispers, and it feels like surrender. 

Reaper seems to take it as one--because he’s pounced upon Jesse as soon as the word leaves his lips, pushing him down against the bed and grabbing his wrists, holding them hostage by the headboard. Peacekeeper falls to the bed and Jesse writhes even though he knows it’s pointless, snarls his anger-heartache-longing into the chill of the air; Reaper laughs at him, and the sound is enough to make Jesse groan.

“You’ve missed this,” Reaper accuses, settling a knee between Jesse’s thighs, grinding against the junction of his legs; Jesse moans so he doesn’t have to reply, and arches his back into a pretty curve, eyes screwing shut as the sharp cold steel of Reaper’s talon ghosts lightly across one of his nipples. “Haven’t you, McCree?”

Jesse growls and lifts his head enough to glare at Reaper--hoping his gaze can burn a hole through the eyeholes in that passive mask, expose the other man just as much as he currently is.

“Why don’t you take some of that shit off, and I’ll _show_ you just how much I missed it, _Boss_?”

Reaper snarls in response, talons raking a shallow score across Jesse’s chest as he gets up again; his clothes are shed with the clatter of belts hitting the floor, but the damnable mask stays in place. Before Jesse can argue for its removal, his protest sharp and angry on his tongue, Reaper is upon him again, covering his body in his muscle-bound bulk and smothering him with a hand over his mouth.

“I don’t want to hear your voice,” Reaper hisses, and his free hand goes to McCree’s throat; McCree shudders at the feeling of that big hand wrapping entirely around his neck, starting to squeeze off his air, and when the hand covering his mouth is pulled away all he can manage is a gasp.

He doesn’t try to fight--knows it won’t do any good. They both want this, in the end.

“That’s better.” Reaper keeps his hold tight around McCree’s throat as he reaches down. His talons make quick work of McCree’s boxers, baring his pussy to the room; McCree spreads his thighs a little, feels his lips part, and shudders at the wetness he can already feel gathering between his labia.

God, but he _has_ missed this--and his body has, too.

He’s missed feeling Reaper’s solid weight over him, against him, as the older man settles himself snugly between McCree’s thighs; he’s missed the fat cock, the way the piercing on it gently teases at McCree’s hole before Reaper spears himself in, impatient and strong. He’s even missed the fucking--as brutal as Reaper is, the way he holds Jesse down by his throat and just _uses_ him, snarling his pleasure even as McCree’s frantic fingers claw bleeding lines down his muscled arms.

He’s missed it because it’s all his has left--the only thing remaining of his Commander, his Gabriel, his first love. It’s better than any memory and the closest thing he can get to what his heart actually desires, and just being able to hear Reaper’s voice--so close to Gabriel’s, just hoarser, darker--is enough to make the vicious fucking worth every bruise.

He’s always been able to tell when Reaper is getting close--not that the man makes it hard, with the way he suddenly releases McCree’s throat and levels himself on all fours, fucking into McCree’s pussy with an urgency that Jesse has grown familiar with. He locks his legs around Reaper’s waist and moans at the assault, savoring everything from the burn of the scratchy blankets along his back to the soreness of his throat; and between the heady mix of pain and pleasure, McCree has enough presence of mind to reach up and grab for Reaper’s mask. He pulls it away as Reaper jerks back, and as he stares up into that familiar--albeit scarred and sickly pale--face glaring down at him, McCree can almost pretend that it’s just like old times again.

The fantasy--the way Reaper scowls at him, the curl of his lip to show fang-like teeth--is enough to tip McCree over the edge.

He cums with the name of a dead man on his lips.

__ 

When McCree wakes up the next morning, it takes him a few minutes to get his bearings. He sits up despite the lingering pain in his body--namely, along his hips and thighs--and looks blearily around the room, only pausing when he sees Peacekeeper set neatly on the bedside table. He frowns, then grabs the gun, checking the cylinder on impulse.

Empty.

McCree snorts and sets the weapon aside, flopping back down onto the bed and lying an arm over his eyes, to shield them from the light of the rising sun.

He already can’t wait for next time.


End file.
